


终有一天我会 dreams come true

by little8 (rewindmp3)



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, they're just two tender boys who may or may not be in love: part two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:47:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29368755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rewindmp3/pseuds/little8
Summary: minghao is 14, 17, 20. he thinks he is alone. hansol is 19, 20, 21, 22. minghao realizes he has never really been alone.
Relationships: Chwe Hansol | Vernon/Xu Ming Hao | The8
Comments: 11
Kudos: 30
Collections: Seventeen Holidays





	终有一天我会 dreams come true

**Author's Note:**

> [original prompt](https://17hols.dreamwidth.org/3914.html?thread=10058#cmt10058) & [original post](https://17hols.dreamwidth.org/3914.html?thread=69962#cmt69962)

Minghao is 14. It’s the night after the last day of the Shanghai World Dance Competition and moonlight spills into his quiet house through the windows. His parents are in another room, sound asleep, but Minghao is as awake as ever, despite the fact that he’s tucked under his covers.

 _Sixth place isn’t good enough_ , Minghao hears. _Nobody’s going to remember you for that. Sixth place. Sixth? Why couldn’t you have been first? What do you even think you’re doing? Why are you here?_

It plays in a loop inside his head, and it sounds like his own voice, only each repetition distorts into something more bitter, something unrecognizable. He tries to replay his parents’ proud exclamations when he got off stage, tries to picture their beaming smiles and bright eyes, only—

It’s hard to fight the voices when you’re alone.

Minghao is 17. He’s under his covers again. This time, he’s in a different place, a different country entirely. The other trainees are sound asleep, but Minghao is as awake as ever.

The voices this time still sound like him. Only, there’s his voice, and the vocal coach’s voice, and the rap coach’s voice, and the dance instructor’s voice piled on top of one another. It’s the worst cacophony of voices Minghao has ever had the displeasure of hearing and they’re all saying the same thing:

_You’re not good enough to debut. Why are you making so many mistakes? Why are you slowing down the rest of the trainees, who have been here for so much longer than you have? You can’t sing, can’t rap, can’t dance in sync with the others. What do you even think you’re doing? Why are you here?_

This time, it’s worse because there’s nothing he can replay to help him fight the voices. It’s worse because those are all things he heard, an hour ago, a day ago, a week ago. It’s worse because it’s all he’s been hearing for months. The voices don’t distort because they don’t need to because _he’s heard it all before_.

Minghao is as awake as ever. There are tears slipping down his face, but he’s mastered the art of crying without noise. He turns to lay on his side so that his pillows catch the tears and the snot and, in the morning, it all will have dried.

He’ll wake with a puffy face that nobody comments on because that’s just what people look like when they wake up for the day.

He’ll wake with a puffy face and a cold ache in his heart and face another day alone. So alone.

Minghao is 20. It’s almost New Year’s. More specifically, it’s that terrible space in between Christmas and New Year’s where time isn’t real and everything feels like it’s in limbo.

Only, that’s the way Minghao has been feeling for a while now, unable to participate in anything because of his injury.

He blinks his eyes once, twice, three times to clear some of the fogginess that comes with waking up. He hadn’t even noticed that he fell asleep.

The dorm is empty. In its emptiness, save for Minghao, it is still. The air feels choked with it, somehow, feels thick and oppressive with stillness. Minghao is used to waking up to the sound of socked feet sliding against the floor, to water running and dishes clinking and people conversing and—

There’s nothing, now, when he wakes. It’s been like that for a while, ever since his injury.

It makes Minghao feel sick.

The members should be back from their schedule soon, but that doesn’t stop his chest from hollowing out, doesn’t stop the cold that seeps into the open space, doesn’t stop the voices in his head from saying:

_Look, they’re doing just fine without you. They don’t need you. They have never needed you. You wanted to make your mark on the world, but all you’ve been is a burden. Especially now, when you’re injured and sitting out and have no use to them at all. What do you even think you’re doing? Why are you here?_

Minghao grew up an only child, but he’s always been surrounded by the thrum of life and love. There were his parents, fluttering around the house, cooking and helping him with his homework. There were his wushu teachers, guiding him through the correct movements, and his fellow classmates, learning and laughing along with him. There were his members, breathing motion into motionless air, even when they were sleeping.

There is none of that now, in the empty dorm. There is only Minghao.

He has just woken up, but he thinks that if he sits there in silence for a moment longer, he might go insane. He puts on some jazz, spreads blank canvases in front of him, and hopes that when he puts the hollowness onto a page, that same hollowness will be filled in his gaping chest.

He’s supposed to have 12 brothers and yet, he’s never felt so alone.

But there is Hansol.

Hansol is 19. He walks into Minghao’s room unannounced, a question about what Minghao wants to eat later half-fallen from his lips when he opens the door. Minghao whips his head around, startled, sitting on the floor with half a dozen canvases staring back at him, all angry black strokes and unbridled disappointment. He watches Hansol’s eyes flit from painting to painting, feels something like fear crawl up his throat.

“I’m sorry,” Minghao says, heart hammering in his ears, “what were you saying? I didn’t catch that.”

Hansol’s eyes flit from Minghao’s paintings to his face. His expression is carefully blank. Minghao can’t decide whether to be disappointed or relieved. Hansol repeats his question; Minghao answers; Hansol closes the door gently behind him; Minghao thinks he doesn’t care. Hansol has seen his soul, laid bare in ink on paper, and Minghao thinks that Hansol doesn’t care.

Only—

It’s New Year’s. The dorms are eerily quiet for how many of them are still there. Minghao is reading on the living room couch when Hansol enters, video calling his parents and little sister. The low murmur of Hansol’s voice is comforting, a reprieve from the dead silence, and Minghao allows the English syllables to wash over him.

He tunes back in when he hears his name.

“Actually,” Hansol is saying. He’s switched to Korean now and his father’s face is filling the screen, “Myungho-hyung’s been painting a lot lately. I was wondering if you and mom could talk to him about it?”

Hansol’s already angling the phone towards Minghao’s face, his father’s enthusiastic “Yes, of course!”s spilling from the speakers. Hansol’s eyes are soft, gentle, encouraging. More than that, they are understanding.

 _We’ve seen this before_ , they say. _We’ve watched mom and dad pour their hearts out onto the page, have seen canvases of happy yellows and heartbroken grays just like yours, and we don’t quite know how to help, but maybe they will._

Minghao is grateful for that, for the reminder that he has never really been alone.

Hansol is 20, 21. He keeps an eye out for things like new museum exhibits and vintage stores in the streets of whatever country they’re in and he asks Minghao if he would like to go.

Sometimes, when they’re walking, Minghao will pull Hansol next to a tree, in front of a wall, into a field, and ask him to pose. Hansol always agrees readily, doesn’t mind when Minghao arranges his limbs and shoves a camera in his face, and Minghao is grateful because he knows that Hansol _does_ mind things like that. It gets a little old, after a while, when you’re an idol, but when it’s Minghao asking, Hansol never complains.

Sometimes, when Minghao is painting, Hansol will sit there with him, listening to whatever music Minghao has on or suggesting new songs, and he will simply watch. He’ll ask questions about what a particular stroke means or what Minghao was trying to express when he’s deemed himself done, and it’s nice to have someone to talk to. Minghao gets caught up in his head when he’s immersed in art, and sometimes, it’s not always the best thing.

It’s nice to have Hansol and his questions there as reminders that Minghao isn’t really alone.

Hansol is 22. They’re filming Going Seventeen and it’s cold outside but Minghao’s heart is warm, listening to the members compliment each other. It’s his turn next, so he hands his candle to Seungcheol as he climbs through the roof of the car. They tell him he has many paths in front of him, that he is wise.

Hansol tells Minghao that he wants to learn from him, that he wants to carve out his own space and style just like Minghao has, and when Minghao hears those words, he thinks, _Maybe this is it. Maybe this is what I’m doing and why I’m here. Maybe this is the mark I can leave on the world._

Later that night, in the darkness of his single room, Minghao realizes:

He hasn’t felt the loneliness in a long, long while.

**Author's Note:**

> thought i'd post this quick 17hols fill i did for new year's on lunar new year :D hope you enjoyed the read! <3


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